


But, it's over.

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-06
Updated: 2006-03-06
Packaged: 2018-12-27 10:41:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12079428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: Cigarettes, artwork on the wall.. and fading.





	But, it's over.

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

  
Author's notes: Another short standalone.  
Hope you like it enough, or hate it enough, to review.  


* * *

_This is our last goodbye I'd hate to feel the love between us die._

 

Two summers ago this month is all there is left to the puzzle that we've built along the way. A fresh one is only days away, and I'm not sure if i'm so ready to begin another, not without you. And its funny because the old is what feels new and the fresh now feels dark and overused. I don't know how much time can go by before I break down and fall to the ground, instead of falling into your arms. It seems sometimes funny to me that I could live through what happened, fight my way back to myself after everything and yet still be scared of the silliest things. Like going to the bathroom in the middle of the night, in the dark. Or holding hands with someone who isn't you. Thats the worst. Nobodys skin quite feels as lovely as your did, and I know how self-concious you were of your fingertips, claiming them rough and un-desirable. But I loved every inch of you.

 

_But it's over. Just hear this and then I'll go._

 

There was always more to me than shown and every bit I saw of you there was a dark shield over its core. I'm still waiting. It's been so long and I'm still waiting for the real you. If I push, you pull and I don't feel it will stop until one of us falls and I know that someone will be me. This can't be over, you can't be leaving. I can't be falling. But you are, and I am. Theres still faint smells of you on my sheets and even more faint words in letters written in smudged pencil. They're fading and i'm joining them. (I don't know what else to do, but leave with your words, because I can't leave with you.) Do you remember saturday mornings? Scruffed hair, un-shaven faces and broad smiles. Or Mondays when we shaved and made love to celebrate. How stupid people must think it is, to celebrate shaving with sex. Really, it was just an excuse we had. Though we never needed excuses. 

 

_You gave me more to live for, more than you'll ever know._

 

I love that we've gone through so much that I appreciate our milestones. We're tumultuous at worst and perfect at best, but now we're nothing together, just a little something each apart. I can't quite capture how you were to me in these words, but i'm trying my hardest, despite the lack of substance here. I doubt you'll read this, and I doubt you'll care. I know that in the future if I ever lose my faith in love, I'll remember us. The 5 years we had together as lovers. And I look forewards to our memories in upcoming years as friends [if you'll allow it] who miss each others kisses. Because I know you'll miss my lips, and my eyes. You have to, otherwise what were we in a relationship for to begin with? If you didn't know you'd miss my eyes. the way I smiled, or how I combed my hair. Its the little idiosyncrensies that are the best. What we let each other know about our little worlds. 

I admit, I can't sleep well without you. My nightmares stay with me and I can't quite scrub them from my skin when i'm on my own. My hand often grows lonely for yours and my heart misses the syncronized beats we shared when making love on the couch. I tell you that I had trouble breathing. You told me that the pain is normal, that beings such as myself are not meant for breathing. I wasn't sure at the time if that was a wonderful line, or a hurtful line. I'm still not sure but i'm hoping on wonderful. I sometimes remember the days that I would take to the city streets, my head down and a half smoked cigarette in my right hand. I use my right hand for everything except dealing cards. You always used to ask me why I always used the right and I said because it will be the hand I someday use to kill a man. You did not know that when I said that, I was referring to myself. But when I spoke of city streets it was always in relation to you. You were the cause of my feet meeting hard concrete. Many times I was barefoot. When barefoot I swore I could feel the heart of the city pumping slowly beneath me, reverberate through the pores of my skin. You called me crazy. If i'm crazy then so is the city, and everyone feeding off it's life-force. 

I have memories strewn all about this faded room, pictures on dark green walls meeting a colour I can't name floors. I have tried to place them in chronological order so often, but linear time was always one concept these hands could not grasp. I fear the day that I will return from a rendezvous with the concrete streets to find my life in neat piles along my bedroom wall. I cannot be placed in piles arranged chronologically. I am comfortable in this mess. In the mess that used to be us. You used to tell me that I was the polar opposite of myself.   
"My love is messy.." I retort "as is the rest of me."  
You would laugh and i knew in your head you agreed with me. 

I remember the first few months, and now I hold onto the last few months. I used to know who I was then. I was a different guy then. I wore my hair, it was a lighter shade of brown and I never bothered straintening it, I just let it curl by itself, I never dreaded next days without you, and I would have had no hesitation in leaving a packet of cigarettes out in the rain. Cigarettes have an addictive personality; each one knows a different secret of mine. Things are different now. I look in the mirror and I do not see the guy I once did. I've become obsessed with how my scarf looks, how many pairs of light jeans I buy and how far into the future I look. Now, I dream of sitting across from you, of your hands on my skin. I dream of coming back to this faded room and seeing my life rearranged, but still messy, and knowing that you took the time to go through it all and make it out alive. I will still walk the city streets, alone and barefoot. and I will still smoke with my right hand and deal with my left.

I tell you I am having trouble breathing.  
You tell me it is because my cigarettes know too much.


End file.
